


Contact

by temporalgambit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Cuddling & Snuggling, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 10:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16763452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalgambit/pseuds/temporalgambit
Summary: In which Enjolras has a cold, Combeferre is sneaky, and Grantaire has an evening of firsts.





	Contact

**Author's Note:**

> My burning passion for Les Mis has been rekindled and I have never felt more alive.

With surprisingly steady hands, Grantaire pours boiling water into a ceramic mug.

Setting the teakettle down, he turns from the fireplace to glance over at Enjolras. He still appears just as miserable as he has all night—sitting hunched over his book, taking notes with one hand, furiously swiping at his streaming nose with the handkerchief clutched in the other. Grantaire wants nothing more than to take him home and wrap him in a blanket and sit him in front of the fire until he is sufficiently drowsy and then put him to bed and forbid him to leave until he is _absolutely, positively, 100% better because the cause can and will survive without him for one night, and there is no logical reason for him to continually burn himself out like this._

Despite this internal tirade, Grantaire has to content himself with placing a cup of tea in front of him.

Enjolras jolts slightly at the _clunk_ of the mug’s contact with the table. He glances up to see the source of the intrusion, appearing somewhat taken aback by the presence of Grantaire. It takes him a few more seconds, but he finally registers the fact that the tea is intended for him, and he inclines his head in what could be loosely interpreted as a nod of thanks.

He tries to return to his writing, but Grantaire’s lingering presence at the table suggests he has something more to say. Sighing heavily, the leader turns to regard him fully. “Is there something I can help you with?” he rasps, wincing as the sound grates across his raw throat.

“My dearest friend,” Grantaire begins, attempting to mask his concern behind a veneer of dry sarcasm, “perhaps the speech-writing might be better left to a more coherent mind?”

“What are you t—” Enjolras starts, but Grantaire cuts him off, pointing to the last sentence of the page he had been writing on. Puzzled, Enjolras reads over his work, _‘The citizens of France need to need to prosper if they will.’_ He reads it again. And then a third time.

Grantaire presses further, saying, “I doubt very much anyone is likely to be stirred into action by _that_ particular speech, despite its…thought-provoking phrasing.”

Enjolras scribbles over the jumbled sentence, then reads the one before it. Crosses that one out too. Then the next one. And the one before that. After nearly three paragraphs of this, he grows frustrated, flipping the book shut and slumping back into the chair with a huff of exasperation. 

Taking a seat across from him, Grantaire slides the book over to the other end of the table, lest he suddenly change his mind. He then makes a bold decision, beckoning Courfeyrac over from where he is sitting by the fire discussing something animatedly with the others. He whispers something in his ear that Enjolras doesn’t catch, then watches as he hurries back to the rest of the group.

“What was that about?” Enjolras questions, trying to feign nonchalance. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about whatever trivial secret the drunkard was sharing, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find the looks the rest of the group was now surreptitiously shooting in his direction a little unsettling.

“Nothing you need to waste your valuable time worrying about, I assure you,” comes the cryptic reply.

Somewhat annoyed now, Enjolras gives him a _look._ However, before it can really have its desired effect, his cold rears its ugly head, and he sneezes six times in rapid succession.

“Bless you,” Grantaire says politely, looking on with a hint of sympathy as the revolutionary scrubs at his rapidly-reddening nose with the handkerchief.

“Thank you,” Enjolras replies, more out of obligation than of actual thanks. He crumples the handkerchief into a little ball, burying his face in his hands in an attempt to collect himself. However, a moment later, he is jerked from this brief respite by the sensation of a warm, heavy weight settling across his shoulders.

Whirling around to face his potential assailant, he finds himself face-to-face with Combeferre, still holding on to the source of the weight—which he now sees is a large checkered blanket—loosely in his left hand. A beat. Then, finally, “ _What_ are you doing?”

Combeferre, for his part, doesn’t even blink. “Well, you’re not feeling well. And you’re cold. And this is warm. So, logic follows—”

“I am _fine,_ ” Enjolras cuts in, “and where on earth did you get the idea that I was _cold?”_

“You’re shivering.”

“I am _n—_ ” but then he realizes that he is, in fact, shivering. His jaw clicks shut.

Combeferre takes this sudden silence as all the permission he needs, quickly pressing the back of his hand to Enjolras’s forehead. “Slight fever…” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else. He then takes up the blanket again, raising an eyebrow at his friend questioningly. The leader sighs, knowing this particular battle is already lost. Combeferre once again wraps the blanket around his shoulders, smiling as the shivering comes to a halt almost immediately.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” he asks earnestly. Enjolras gives him a blank look. Undeterred, he continues, “Now, you really ought to go home and try to get some rest. Would you like someone to walk you there, or—” 

Combeferre is cut off for the second time that night, this time by Feuilly. “No chance of that,” the fan-maker announces, gesturing towards the window. They all look, and sure enough, the whole world is a mass of swirling white flakes, driven into a frenzy by the wickedly howling wind. No sane man would dare venture out into this sort of weather.

“…Huh,” Combeferre observes. “Well, in the meantime, why don’t you come over and sit with everyone until the storm clears up?”

Enjolras frowns. “It isn’t as if the rest of the world stops just because of a little snow. I really should be getting back to work.”

“True. However, according to ‘anonymous sources,’ you haven’t been getting much done to begin with, so…”

Enjolras shoots a glare towards Grantaire, who shrugs casually in response. Finally, after a moment of intense internal deliberation, he agrees, “Fine. But just for a little while.”

Combeferre smiles, taking his friend by the hand to lead him over to the fireplace. Enjolras ends up seated on the sofa between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, a position strategically chosen for his benefit (not that he would ever notice) due to it’s maximum comfort and proximity to the fire.

Courfeyrac grins cheerily at him as he sits, giving him a light peck on the cheek as is his custom. “Oh, you _are_ warm!” he exclaims, frowning lightly at the unexpected heat. “R wasn’t kidding, then.”

“I’m _fine,_ Courf,” Enjolras assures him, “It’s nothing to worry about.” Again, a if by some malicious universal intent to discredit him, he is immediately sent into a series of rather violent sneezes.

“Bless you!” Courfeyrac says once the fit is over. However, Enjolras still has a hand clamped over his mouth and nose, and is now digging in his pockets for something that obviously isn’t there. “Is something wrong?” Courfeyrac asks, concerned. 

“I left by—” Enjolras starts, voice thick with congestion, looking helplessly over towards the corner where his handkerchief is still laying on the table.

Courfeyrac realizes the problem. “Oh, here, you can have mine!” he offers, pulling out a blue square of fabric. 

“Thag you,” Enjolras replies gratefully, accepting the cloth and blowing his nose with a sound that makes Joly cringe.

“You can keep it, then,” Courfeyrac chirps once he’s finished. “I’ve got plenty more at home, and something tells me you probably need that one more than I do.”

Enjolras nods, folding up and tucking the (admittedly rather disgusting) handkerchief into his pocket. He shudders a little at a sudden chill, prompting Combeferre to reach over and adjust the quilt which had slipped down off of his shoulders.

Then Grantaire reappears, holding the previously forgotten cup of tea in his hands. “Did you want this?” he asks, holding out the mug. “It’s getting cold sitting over there…” he trails off, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

With a level of amiability that surprises even himself, Enjolras thanks him, accepting the proffered tea. It has cooled to just about perfect drinking temperature, so he takes a sip, allowing the warm liquid to soothe his sore throat. He gestures for Grantaire to join them, indicating a vacant chair.

Grantaire sits as Courfeyrac picks up the previous conversation—surprisingly on-topic for once—regarding tax code. To most, a rather dull subject, but it sparks Enjolras’s interest almost immediately, and soon they have an intense discussion going on amongst the group regarding steps that could be taken to assist those hit hardest by the recent tax hike. Grantaire notices Combeferre, usually there to aid in these debates with a helpful bits and pieces of information, is unusually quiet, seemingly focused on something else.

However, Grantaire soon realizes that Combeferre is not distracted at all. In fact, during the next hour it becomes apparent that he knows _exactly_ what he is doing. Ever the observer, Grantaire watches with fascination as the other student slowly but surely works on a more immediate issue—lulling Enjolras to sleep. It’s a painstakingly long process, almost like a dance, but Combeferre executes each step precisely, never missing a beat, clearly working from years of experience. 

At first, it’s very subtle. Enjolras is obviously tired, but he’s doing his absolute best not to let it hinder him in conversation. Grantaire notices that, whenever he makes a particularly good point, Combeferre touches him lightly on the shoulder. This occurs several times, until eventually the hand doesn’t pull back, simply resting in place as a comfortable, friendly presence between collarbone and shoulder blade.

Next, Combeferre begins carefully moving over, closing the gap between himself and Enjolras until they are seated within centimeters of each other. Then (this part is so subtle it takes a few moments before Grantaire realizes what he’s doing) he takes the hand still clasped on his friend’s shoulder and slowly, _slowly_ pulls Enjolras towards him. Even though there is an infinitesimally small amount of space between them, this process takes an incredibly long time. It’s so slow, in fact, that Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice it’s happening, not even once Combeferre has him leaning completely into his side. Grantaire does note, however, that the leader has almost entirely stopped taking part in the conversation, choosing to listen rather than speak.

Then (and this is where his true genius shows through) Combeferre uses his now-free hand to begin rubbing slow, soothing circles on his friend’s back. This, Enjolras does notice, briefly glancing at Combeferre, who simply smiles back. He would normally protest, try to put up _some_ sort of fight, but by this point—feeling the effects of illness in combination with his newfound comfortable position and the warmth of Combeferre’s body heat—he is already far too sleepy to care. He allows Combeferre to pull him in further, leaning his head on his shoulder, sighing because he knows his friend has succeeded, as usual. He briefly registers the fact that he is going to fall asleep in the café, in front of everyone, and he’s sure he will be embarrassed about it tomorrow, but for now…

Combeferre smiles as Enjolras’s eyes finally flutter shut, and he uses this opportunity to maneuver his friend once more, pulling him fully in so he can lay with his head cradled in his lap.

Courfeyrac, who had recognized Combeferre’s endgame from the get-go, stands, picking up the blanket which had fallen off of Enjolras’s shoulders sometime during the discussion and draping it over his prone figure once more. Enjolras shifts, relaxing further beneath the additional warmth. Courfeyrac and Combeferre share a smile.

The rest of the group, having fallen silent to watch the end of Combeferre’s tactic play out, resumes their conversation on the much less serious topic of contemporary novels, which strikes up several rather heated debates on the merits of an up-and-coming author’s work. They’ve just about reached a general consensus (absolute literary rubbish, but still acceptable reading material as far as guilty pleasures go) before Jehan abruptly exclaims, “Oh, look!” They all turn and follow his line of sight to the window. The snow has stopped. The street below shines brilliantly as the fresh, untouched blanket of snow is illuminated only by the light of the moon.

“That’s my cue to go,” Bahorel declares, standing and striding towards the door, “There’s a pretty little mistress waiting at home for me right about now. Shouldn’t keep her waiting,” he says with a grin.

They all wave, calling goodbyes as he exits.

Joly and Bossuet are the next to go, leaving a half-hour later in a tangle of limbs and winter clothing as Joly attempts to pull a wooly hat down over Bossuet’s ears while Bossuet simultaneously winds a brightly patterned scarf around Joly’s neck. They can still be heard laughing and arguing playfully after the door swings shut behind them.

Over the course of the next two hours, everyone else filters out as well. Feuilly is the last to go, leaving only Grantaire, Combeferre, and the still-asleep Enjolras on the sofa. Combeferre himself is looking rather tired, and Grantaire catches him on more than one occasion glancing longingly towards the door.

“Why don’t you go?” Grantaire suggests after he sees Combeferre’s eyes slip shut for the fourth time.

Combeferre’s head snaps up, “What? Oh, no, I couldn’t just leave him…and I certainly don’t want to wake him now…” he replies, absently combing his fingers through Enjolras’s hair.

“I can stay with him,” Grantaire blurts out, inwardly wondering what on earth he’s doing. “My apartment’s probably freezing by now anyway, and it’s not like I have anywhere to be tomorrow morning…” 

“Oh, could you?” Combeferre asks with obvious relief. All of a sudden, a thought occurs to him, “Are you certain it will…um…well, I know you two don’t always get along…so are you sure you would be…?”

Grantaire waves a hand dismissively. “That’s not a problem,” he insists, “I can be quiet, and I’m fairly certain he will be too, since he’s currently asleep.” When Combeferre still looks somewhat unsure, he continues, “Even if he wakes up, I promise we won’t talk politics. On my honor.”

This seems to settle most of Combeferre’s doubts. “Alright,” he agrees, nodding, “come over here, then,” he orders, gently lifting up Enjolras’s shoulders to allow Grantaire to take his turn as human pillow.

Grantaire carefully swaps positions with Combeferre, somewhat nervous now as the leader’s warm weight is settled into his lap. Luckily, Enjolras doesn’t even stir, sleeping too deeply to even notice the momentary change of position.

Combeferre stretches as he stands, glad to regain full mobility of his limbs. He pulls on his coat, gathering his books together. Approaching the sofa, he reaches over one last time to brush a few loose strands of hair off of Enjolras’s forehead before turning to Grantaire. “Come and find me if he gets any worse,” he requests. “I’m sure it’s just a cold, but…”

“I will, don’t worry. But you just said it yourself, it’s only a cold. Everything will be fine,” Grantaire tries to reassure him, hoping he sounds more convincing than he feels.

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Combeferre agrees, letting out a breath. “It’s just that, are you sure you want to—I mean, I could—”

“ _Go,_ ” Grantaire insists firmly. “Go home. Get some rest. God, sometimes you’re worse than _him_ , you know.”

Combeferre has the good graces to look somewhat sheepish. “Alright, alright, I’m going…I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. And with that, he turns and exits the café.

Grantaire watches the door click shut behind him. Looks down. Freezes, finally realizing the gravity of the situation. This is the first time he’s ever been entirely alone with Enjolras. Not only that, this is the most physical contact he’s ever had with Enjolras. Hell, this is the closest he’s ever physically _been_ to Enjolras in his entire life.

He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so, after a brief moment of panic, he just clasps them on top of his head to keep them out of the way. He wonders how ridiculous this must look, how stupid Enjolras is going to think he is, in what way he is going to royally screw this up—because he is _definitely_ going to screw it up somehow, he just knows it.

“No, it’s okay, it’s okay, I can do this, it’s fine,” he mutters to himself, “Everything is going to be fine.” He takes his hands off of his head, placing them resolutely at his sides, looking at the sleeping figure in his lap. Enjolras looks much younger when he’s asleep, he notes. A great deal more vulnerable, too. He’s usually full of such energy and light that it’s easy to forget he’s just as human as the rest of them.

Grantaire watches the steady rise and fall of his chest. Admires the way the firelight reflects off his golden hair. Marvels at his delicate features—chin, lips, nose, eyelashes. Abruptly, he’s hit with the realization of how lucky he is to get to be a part of this situation. Rarely does Enjolras have his guard down like this, and even rarer still is someone around to witness it. He silently thanks whatever god there may or may not be for affording him this opportunity. So thankful he is, and so peaceful and comfortable the atmosphere, that he isn’t even aware of the moment when he himself drifts off to sleep.

* * *

The first thing he notices when he is jolted awake hours later is that his back is absolutely _killing_ him. Sleeping upright was probably not his best move, not that he had much of a choice, given the circumstances. The second thing he sees is that the room is significantly darker than he remembers it being; the fire has died down, he realizes, and some of the cold is beginning to seep in from outside. The third thing he notices—the cause of his sudden wakefulness—is that Enjolras is stirring, shifting in his lap as he approaches the waking world once more.

He suffers a moment of intense dread. _What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do? Will he be angry, waking up expecting his friend and finding me instead? Why did I ever offer to do this? He can’t even stand me most of the time. I should’ve just gone home. I should’ve just—_

Meanwhile, during Grantaire’s internal meltdown, Enjolras has pushed above the surface of sleep, and is now doing his best to blink the bleariness from his eyes. A hazy figure is coming into focus in front of his face, and it doesn’t appear to be Combeferre, whom he’d suspected he’d see upon waking. No, no glasses, definitely not Combeferre. Dark curls…sharp features… in fact, it almost looks like…

“Grantaire?” he asks, voice no louder than a whisper.

The figure freezes. Definitely Grantaire. “…Yes?” he replies, sounding wholly uneasy.

“Where’s, ah,” he takes a second to clear his throat, trying again, “Where’s Combeferre?”

“Oh, he’s—well, he went home, but he asked me to—but don’t worry, I can get him if you—just let me—”

Even if he were fully awake and healthy, Enjolras is fairly certain Grantaire still wouldn’t have been making any sense. “What? No, that’s fine, I just…I think I fell asleep on him, so…”

“You did,” Grantaire replies, “but he was tired, and he has to work tomorrow morning, and I uh…don’t, so…” 

“Hm.”

This single-syllable response sends Grantaire into a panic again, “But I can go, if you want! He said I could come get him if you needed him, and obviously you don’t want me to stay with you, so I’ll just—” he makes a move like he’s going to stand up.

“No, no, no, stay, please, it’s fine, calm down,” Enjolras pleads, suddenly not wanting to be alone. He pushes himself up, trying to get into a sitting position—regretting it immediately once he’s there, as the world spins dangerously around him. He groans, burying his face in his hands, willing the horrible pounding sensation in his head to dissipate. He wishes he could have just stayed asleep, because he’s pretty sure he was not feeling anywhere near this terrible earlier in the evening. At least his nose seems to have stopped running, he muses, though that may have been preferable to this new barrage of symptoms.

Grantaire watches as he attempts to collect himself before realizing he should also probably take this opportunity to stretch. He does so, and every muscle in his body protests loudly, stiff and sore from sitting in the same position for so long. He turns back to Enjolras, now taking note of the uncomfortable expression on his face. “Are you alright?” he asks, worried.

Enjolras is going to nod, but then thinks better of it. “I’m fine, I just…” he presses the heels of his hands to his aching eyes, “I just have this headache, and I…” he shudders a little, “It’s cold in here.”

Before he has time to think about it or talk himself out of it, Grantaire retrieves the blanket from where it has fallen to the floor and wraps it around Enjolras’s shoulders. In another bold move, he presses the back of his hand to the revolutionary’s forehead, frowning at the heat he finds.

“You should probably drink something,” he says, because it sounds like something Combeferre would suggest, and Combeferre is usually right about this kind of thing. He stands, going over to fill an empty cup with water from a pitcher, re-stoking the fire while he’s at it, before returning to the couch again. Enjolras accepts the cup gratefully, taking a few careful sips before handing the glass back to Grantaire, who sets it on the table before rejoining him on the sofa.

Despite the revived fire, Enjolras is still shivering, so Grantaire (who is full of brave decisions tonight) scoots over next to him until their sides are touching.

Enjolras look at him questioningly, but doesn’t protest when he’s encircled by warm arms. In fact, he suddenly craves physical contact—probably as a byproduct of illness, he supposes, though it’s not like the reasoning behind it really matters. He leans into the embrace, knowing full well he will hate himself later for this momentary weakness, but feeling far too sick and miserable at the moment to care. He curls up until he is sufficiently small enough and then tucks his head beneath Grantaire’s chin, burying his face in his shirt.

To say Grantaire is surprised would be an understatement. Enjolras is practically in his lap now, clinging on to him like a lifeline. Dumbfounded, the words slip out before he can even process what he’s about to say, “Are we…cuddling?”

“Tell no one,” Enjolras mumbles, face pressed into Grantaire’s chest.

“I won’t,” Grantaire agrees. As if anyone would believe him, anyway. He reaches up to stroke Enjolras’s hair tentatively, relieved when he receives a contented sigh in response. He continues this petting motion, still inwardly wondering if this is all part of some really bizarre dream, until he feels Enjolras’s breathing begin to slow. 

“Hey,” he whispers, nudging the revolutionary gently.

“Hm?” Enjolras questions, audibly drowsy.

“Do you want to lie down properly?” he asks. “You’ll probably sleep better.”

“No, no, this is fine,” Enjolras murmurs, not at all keen on the idea of moving. 

Grantaire sighs. “Here, at least let me—” he shifts them over, lying so they’re at least somewhat horizontal, holding Enjolras carefully to his chest to avoid jostling him too much. “That’s a little better, isn’t it?” he asks once they’re fully repositioned.

Enjolras makes a little noncommittal noise which he chooses to interpret as a yes.

Grantaire resumes running his fingers through Enjolras’s hair until he feels his breathing even out once more. He’s just about to drift off himself when the other shifts, mumbling something into his shoulder.

“What?” he asks.

Enjolras lifts his head so he can be heard more clearly. “Thank you,” he whispers, pressing his hot forehead into the crook of Grantaire’s neck.

Grantaire smiles despite knowing there’s no way he could possibly see it. “Anytime,” he replies.

Within minutes, they’re both asleep.


End file.
